Chances
by Octavo Nous
Summary: <html><head></head>Chances where it wasn't going to happen again. Drabbles.</html>
1. Drabbles

**Chances**

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><p><strong>Voice<strong>

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><p>He wasn't sure why but he awoke early that morning. Too early. The watch on his night table marked 2: 36 a.m. in bright red numbers. The sun wouldn't even be up any time soon, and still his eyelids refused to close. For what seamed like hours he laid on his bed, something bothering him in the back of his head. A little voice telling him to get up already. At first he tried to ignore it. He needed his sleep in order to be able to function later on. But it insisted.<p>

In the end he gave it's way.

With heavy, annoyed footsteps he passed through the hall into the common room in which they had the dinning table,and most importantly, the coffee machine. He poured himself a nice cup of the dark brown liquid before heading back to his room when something stoped him. It was that little voice again wich told him to stop on his tracks and listen.

There where soft whimpers, sounding like a door being pushed by the wind, staining the midnight silence. He followed the sound until he reached a door at the left of his own.

The light was turned of, but he knew Private was there.

"Skippah?" Skipper hated how his voice cracked when he cried. It made a knot to his stomach and stung in his heart. He listened to the boy sitting up in his bed and sniffing before speaking again.

"Is everything alright?" He asked. Damn, Skipper cursed the pain in his voice. It just wasn't right.

"Yes," Skipper said before acknowledging the scenario. "I mean, no. There's something really wrong here."

He took a few steps closer, caring not to bump into anything, until he was close enough to hear Privates heavy breathing.

"It's nothing, really." He tried to lie to his Captain. Skipper's natural instinct snapped back.

"When I say something's wrong, it's because it is!" His voice had ceased to be soft and caring, suddenly throwing up his attitued. He rectified again, cursing himself mentally. "Sorry, Private."

There was a long pause in which the only sounds where their breaths and Private's sniffing. The Penguin Leader placed an arm around the younger man and rubbed gently. Trying to set some comfort for his operative. Yet, as Private's sobs weren't getting softer, Skipper felt the growing urge to help him.

"Feel like talking about it?" His voice was soft, and very quiet.

Private replied shaking his head slowly, but since Skipper couldn't see him he raised his voice.

"Not really Skippah, not really."

Skipper felt powerless and expendable. And guilty, being that how he probably made Private feel most of the time. He retrieved his hand away from Private. The little voice told him that was what he was crying about. He hated himself for it.

The larger figure cleared his throat.

"Get some rest," He said. "Training's cancelled for today."

As the older man left the room, Private sat in his bed with his eyes wide open. He knew that there was indeed something very wrong happening. Skipper's voice only cracked when he was crying.

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><p><strong>Chalk<strong>

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><p>One morning, when they awoke, there was chalk outside their Head Quarters. He knew the components of chalk. Had used it once or twice on his experiments, but he hadn't ever placed himself to count the uses to chalk in a way Rico did. The little white block, probably left behind by a child, to Rico was a mountain of wonder.<p>

He was astonished to see the things he could paint, the exact angles and shapes he could create with such a simple compound.

The scientist watched as his slightly psychotic friend tried to teach the youngest operative into drawing a face. He had split the chalk in halve, and soon both of them where painting masterpieces over the dull grey wall. Tracing invisible patterns over the bricks.

He wondered then how could there be a different side to him, how was there a way in which he wouldn't be creating something as beautiful as he was now.

For hours he sat behind him. Even when Private, bored, had turned away to watch the T.V, he had staid. Only staring as the wall took color. Thought technically there was only white over the usual grey.

But suddenly it stopped. The magic had somehow ran out, and left the an open space on the wall. Kowalski stood bewildered.

"Why did you stop?" He asked staring at the chalk lines rather then his friend.

"It ran out." Rico answered simply.

Kowalski stared at the blank side of the wall. The one Rico hadn't touched. It felt empty, cold.

As the months, and even years went by, he never sat on that side of the room again.

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><p><strong>Precedence<strong>

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><p>Everything in his life had a precedence. Whether it was black coffee over that sugary brown liquid they dared call coffee, to when it came to his credo over everything else.<br>Then one time, someone, he couldn't bring back who, had asked him something that broke his balance. She, or He, had asked which of his subordinates he prefered.  
>Never before had he held such precedences. For most of his life team work, strength, and courage had been top of the pyramid. Never had he imagined such simple situations, doors he never knew he crossed, that took him to where he was today. Never once did he regret it.<p>

It had been a particulary long day. After a whole month's work, they had closely traced a line of organ dealers to Boston, being close to death more then once, and then flown back to N.Y. All in a day.  
>Now they sat in a cafeteria, a single block away from the airport.<br>The youngest team member had taken the initiative to order the coffee while the remaining members of the team found a comfortable table to seat at. Being him the healthiest after the mission all of them had complied.

Whene Private came back with the four long cups of coffee he took a seat besides his captain.  
>While Rico and Kowalski thanked Private for his kindness Skipper had taken a sip from his cup and made a disgusted face towards the liquid. He noticed it was not the black coffee he had asked for.<p>

"Private," He said, "I think I might have your order here." He held the cup up to Private, who shook his head softly.

"It's your's Skippah," He said, and the alluded grimaced. The younger man lowered his eyes, shame clouding his features. "It's just you worked so hard today Skippah, I though you deserved something sweeter."

That day Skipper's heart took a leap on a way it hadn't ever done before. His whole world shook so hard, that for a moment, he forgot all about precedence.


	2. Swindle

**Traiding** (Original Promp)

_Two weeks ago Skipper and Julian got into an argument and made some sort of wager. Julian would not bother Skipper or go near the Penguin base for the next two weeks if Private stayed with him in his club._

_Julian said that Skipper would never take the bet, that he cared and protected Private to much. Skipper, being himself, was out to prove him wrong and agreed with the terms of the bet._

_It was a bit awkward when he turned around and there was Private, arms across his chest giving Skipper a stern look. After a long conversation between the two Private finally agreed to go. But he had a smirk as he left and Skipper looked a bit worried._

_For the past two weeks Julian didn't go near the HQ, he would walk past sometimes but he would never go out of his way to bother the group._

_Two days into the bet Kowalski and Rico saw what Private was smirking about. Across the base, clear as day was Julian and Private sharing lunch and talking and laughing._

_Skipper went red in the face and stomped back into HQ and went to the work out room to let off some steam._

_Kowalski and Rico secretly called the two weeks, 'Mission: Make Skipper Jealous'. And it was working.__  
><em>

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><p><strong>Swindle<strong>

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><p>The way Julien was staring at him was slightly bothering him.<p>

Private knew it was rude, therefore he couldn't avoid to peak back at Julien with unease. His nerves where starting to peak, and the older man refused to quit staring. Desperate, Private spread his lips and furrowed his brows, but his expression didn't seam to disturb the staring.

"Is there a problem Julien?" He asked with a concern-filled voice. The alluded shook his head and walked over to a point where he could have a direct eye-contact with the younger boy.

"Only the fact that you'll be leaving tomorrow." He said. Private found it surprising that he wasn't able to hold his stare.

The brunette turned his head to look down at his companion's shoes, rather then his eyes. He chuckled slightly.

"Yeah, I actually miss being with the guys a little bit." He half smiled. Julien, on the other hand, tightened his eyebrows in a frown. He felt his face heating with anger. Anger in a particular form that came whenever he didn't get what he wanted.

"_No!_" Julien cried.

Blue eyes widened.

"Julien..." Private couldn't find a scape rout, and his brain seamed to malfunction. Then a hand traced through his cheek, acting as a blood-magnet, and making him blush in a dark red shade.

"I demand that you stay here permanently."

The boy's hands where shivering. Julien's proximity intimidated him. Yet the amber-eyed seamed so cool, unbreakable, with a determined expression, and his hand on Private's face.

Private wanted to look away, but found himself hypnotized. Sweat begging to drip from his back.

"You... you do know I'm here for Skipper..." He spoke with a trembling lip.

Julien stared at those lips. To him they where tempting him, begging him to lean closer. But the words they spoke. So very truthful and hurting. The blue-eyed brunette, he knew, was hopelessly in love with his commander officer. That was the reason he was there in the first place. A bet.

A game in which he won a lot more then he ever hoped for, finding every little detail, every little quirk about the boy that just seamed stunning to him. To see him blissful, mesmerized, or even melancholic, always broke a hurricane through his stomach. He was perfect with every flaw. And Julien just couldn't conceive the though of surrendering him back to the hot-headed freak Private had for a boyfriend. He felt his own hands beginning to shake.

"Julien," Private called, worry crawling into him. Julien didn't respond.

His eyes where severe, and him mouth twisted in a grimace. Tears ran through his face.

The Penguin Operative felt aghast, as Julien's eyes began to look past him. He called his name again, still no answer. A knot tied inside his heart. Witnessing a heart that broke before and for him. He cried a third time, his tone almost begging. No answer. The older man's hand shook in his face, and Private felt his own eyes grow wet with despair. He begged to Julien, and there was still no answer.

His voice became more desperate when the older man's nails began to cling into his skin.

"_Julien you're hurting me!_" He screamed. Then something shook. Julien was back, staring at him as if tears hadn't ever stained his skin. He retrieved his hand from the younger man, and mouthed words so unfamiliar to him.

"I'm sorry." He tried to speak, but a knot on his throat imped him.

Private just stared back at him, eyes shining with the water that poured from them. His fingers twisting like worms.

"I think it's best that I leave now."

Julien only nodded.

Private walked himself out and back to the Penguin's H.Q, telling himself all the way to get over it. He was strong enough when Skipper asked why he was back so early (Not that he minds) he faked a smile and told him Julien cancelled the bet.

Skipper bought it, coming from Private, but it surprised him when for many weeks to come Julien neglected to show up at his base, as if the bet had meant a permanent rupture. Not that he minded that either.

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><p>The original promp at the superior part of the fic was written by the inspiring author Zero Skye, user 529185 , the drabble was written by yours trully. Which is a fancy way of saying me, by the way.<p> 


	3. Tragedy

**Tragedy**

_ What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs? _  
><em> -George Eliot<em>

"You said you'd take down one of you own men if you had to, didn't you." He said.

A hand tightened it's grip around a gun, forcing a finger to stand on his ground, that at the trigger would linger.

"Well just do it." His voice became strong, so dominant, in a way none had ever heard coming from his lips, and nonetheless had been born with the years, screaming into the boy's head, until he finally gave into it.

A figure loomed before him.

He stood, like a gargoyle, menacing the man. Focusing his will to stay where he was. He forced his hands not to shiver. He commanded his tears not to fall. He gritted his teeth, trying his best to hold himself back. There was no way to tell if Private noticed this effort.

The gun looking directly into Private's forehead didn't move. The silence prolonged itself as Skipper refused to look into his eyes.  
>The younger man felt tears beginning to run through his face. His muscles shaking. He was terrified.<p>

"Just do it already!" He screamed, almost begging. Skipper didn't react. He just hoovered on spot. A hand lifted in order to point a gun up to his private's head. His body stiff, eyes looking away, into an imaginary abyss, where he refuge his grip. His heart buried eight miles deep.

Private's cries became more eminent. As he sniffed in distress, waiting for a fate that eluded him. He waited hopeless like a rat trapped in a cage. He only wanted the rest like the one which belongs to those who've chased down titans. He was brave.

"If I'm such a disgrace, Skipper," He shouted, holding his hands up in a fist. "If I deserve this." His voice became weak again, and his eyes wide, like if he where who he was. Yet he wasn't, that Skipper had to bear in.

"Please Skipper." The young man sobbed. "Just end it."

His heart shook. Looking back to Private, seeing him like he was before, tore Skipper's soul apart. With eyes wide, and a mouth hanging open, he lowered his gun and took a step closer. But reasoning stopped him.

He was disgusting, a shame, a abomination to nature.

The arm in which he held his gun straightened and Private shrank in his place, waiting for an ending.

But he could still breath when his eyelashes parted. He looked into his Commander Officer.

His teeth where still gritting. But the rest of his body had rose against him. Hand shaking. Lips quivering. Eyes looking into Private. Tears pouring like rivers.

_"Please."_

What a kind word to be, mouth, his last. What a soft thud to give as he falls.

The killer takes a step closer to the corpse, and holds him. Sweet love that was never meant, spoke words he would not resent. Hugging him as if he where sleeping.  
>Blood pours, but silence floods.<p>

Skipper held him, by his face, and stared at the corpse of his once friend.

He ran a thought to himself. He was disgusting, a shame, a abomination to nature. A murderer holding a murdered man. He knew he couldn't wash his hand from a fault so clearly his. He was stained for infinity. So then his mind spoke, no other sin would matter.

Trembling like a child close to open the door his parents forbid him, he leaned into the boy and placed his lips under his own. Crushing his conscience with passion, oh shame lay down him, he kissed. He bliss in a sin he had killed for. And the corpse gave no answer.


	4. Edging

**Edging.**

Edging meant keeping on the safe side of things. Getting just so far before he leaned back into rightness.

Maybe it could be compared to walking down the street and passing along a bakery. Smelling the fresh baked bread and walking away before even giving himself the chance of buying it.

To him it meant a glance he allowed himself to take. A though close to complete about a something he didn't dare think. He was glad, then, that what he felt didn't involve much thinking.

It was a lot more about senses. A sniff from his neck, the ever-so-innocent brushing of skin, the mere proximity that sparks like electricity across his body. Only just enough to have taste of whatever was happening, as it felt better than anything good he'd ever felt.

It couldn't be wrong if he didn't think about it. If it wasn't wrong he didn't need to stop it. He feared that if he ever stopped, then he'd eventually have to think about it.

Therefore he didn't reason the extra smiles that had crossed his lips. He didn't treason those short spasms of tranquility, as they overpowered his paranoia.

He'd never acknowledge the twists in his stomach when he talked to someone else, and he swore, oh, did he swear to himself, not to mind that the boy was in love with Cupid.

It wasn't like it could possibly get anywhere.

He wasn't diving, he was just edging.

Keeping on the safe side. Safe from erring, safe from screwing everything he'd ever done, safe from naming those feelings, for as one knows, a name empowers the demon.  
>You cannot kill a dog once you've named it.<br>You cannot refuse a feeling once you know which it is.

The only aspect that he hadn't counted was the fact: that refusing to entertain an idea does not make it go away.

He eluded the monster long enough, to allow it to grow large enough he couldn't fight it.

Skipper had never been good at edging.

He always jumped in for the kill on the first chance. No matter how he tried to elude it, how many words he found as excuses, the extent of his monologues, he was in love with his soldier.


End file.
